


Just Go With It

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Protective Illya, Resolved Arguments, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 19:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11789895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Illya is confused and conflicted. A mission opens up his eyes, and Napoleon's as well.





	Just Go With It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bryonyashley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryonyashley/gifts).



> A belated birthday gift for you. Hope you like it. But I wrote this real quick and it is unbetaed so mistakes are all mine :)

Illya has read on how men flirt. Some tactics involve fixing your hair or adjusting your tie. Some men may even smooth the collar of their shirts or fiddle with their cufflinks. And Napoleon, the man with the suit and tie, is doing all the above in front of Yanick, their amorous mark, and as Illya spies on them from across the room, the burning jealousy at the pit of his stomach simply flares. When the man leans in purposely, his lips almost touching Napoleon’s jaw as if whispering something, because whatever it was Napoleon had done and said to him had worked, Illya leaves the scene in a hurry without glancing back.

Back in their safe house later, Napoleon removes his waistcoat and cufflinks, before carefully rolling his sleeves up to his elbows while through the reflection from the mirror in front of him, tries to gauge what Illya will do next. He has been standing there ever since Napoleon had returned, but he does nothing, merely leans against the doorway, eyes sharp and narrowed upon him. Napoleon looks at himself in the mirror and then at Illya once again.

The silence between them is grating and he could not stand it a second longer.

“What?” he asks finally without turning.

Instead of saying what’s on his mind, Illya looks away and thinks about Napoleon and the man, and his jealousy returns almost instantaneously.

How could one resist Napoleon Solo? The man is like a beautiful painting to marvel at, a man with a smile that could either melt or break hearts. Illya thinks he’s experienced both. Unbidden, his mind flits back to when they had shared a kiss about a month ago, but he’d rather forget the circumstances which had led them to it, and the promise of never bringing up the matter again.

He turns to see Napoleon still staring at him through the mirror, his eyes so striking, it really is impossible to look away once you’re trapped in them. For lack of better word, Napoleon Solo is an enigma. Always teasing, always pulling Illya’s tail but always too quick to slip away before Illya could grasp his mannerism that’s screaming a message meant to be studied.

“You’ve behaved funny all through this mission.”

Napoleon’s talking and only then Illya realises he’d been staring at the American too openly. And Napoleon could almost see the wheels turning inside Illya’s head as he struggles to put forth words that simply would not come out from his mouth.

“Peril?”

“You accept this too easily.”

This time, Napoleon does turn to face the Russian, hands on his hips now. Illya notices that as another sign of flirting. Alpha dominant flirty males subconsciously do that to make themselves appear bigger and superior, although it also could be a sign of hostility. But there is nothing hostile between them now. Ever since Rome, they have a camaraderie and that has turned into something more. And since he had tasted a sliver of it, Illya wants more. Maybe that is why he could not stand it when Napoleon was having his way with their mark earlier on.

“I’m not a mind reader, but I may have an idea of what’s bothering you.”

Illya sucks in a breath at Napoleon’s words. Does Cowboy know what was on his mind? What he’s been thinking? Does he know the weird feelings he has been having for him lately? Illya wants to say something but the words are stuck, lodged in his throat. And now Napoleon has inched closer.

Eye contact is very important when you're studying how men flirt. Men who are interested will usually hold their gaze for a little longer than usual. Like looking at you in the eyes for a long period of time. And Napoleon is doing that at the moment. But, maybe, he’s doing it because he’s only trying to read his mind and not flirt, Illya thinks silently to himself.

“When will you see him next?” Illya asks, diverting Napoleon’s attention from their argument, quickly changing the topic.

“Tomorrow night. I’ve promised him dinner at his place. I’ll get the information then.”

Illya clicks his tongue. “There are other ways to get information.”

Napoleon tilts his head, lips part in surprise at Illya’s words. His uneasiness, the scowling, the angry glares he’d thrown everyone’s way ever since Waverly had handed Napoleon his assignment had been due to this? That he was troubled for Napoleon’s well being? Or was he troubled that Napoleon has to get handsy with someone like Yanick? Troubled with the fact that Napoleon’s dealing with men whom he knew would proposition his partner with something he himself would never be able to offer? Not wanting his own confusion to deter himself, Napoleon carefully tries to placate him.

“In the CIA, Sanders made me do the honeypot missions because he owned me. They owned me. And as an agent, you always do as you’re told. You don’t disobey orders. And I think you would understand why they assigned me these type of missions. You’ve read my files.”

He watches for a reaction from Illya, any signs that’ll show the anger and disgust he expects, but sees none of those. Instead, there’s something dangerous in the Russian’s eyes, something like protectiveness, and even jealousy. 

“I understand but does not mean I like it.”

Napoleon sighs. It’s so typical of him, obstinate to the end. With a soft smile, Napoleon tries again as Illya’s face takes on a mulish expression.

“Sometimes, the best and quickest ways to get what we want is the ugly way, am I not right?”

“I would prefer not.”

“I know. If this is asked of you or Gaby, I’d hate it too, Peril. Hell, I’d rather it always be me, you understand what I’m saying? Because I've done it for ten years, a few more won’t make a difference. It won't hurt.” 

_'No!’_ Illya wants to shout, because it doesn’t make it better for Illya, but he ends up just staring at him uncomprehendingly. And Napoleon cannot quite decipher what’s on Illya’s mind at the moment. He wants to wring the words out of him but he doesn’t want to seem too forceful in his approach. Illya might just bolt and that is the last thing Napoleon wants. So, in the end, he decides to let the matter go, walks right into Illya’s personal space, smooths a hand on his shoulder before placing his arm around him.

“We’ll be fine,” he says, and despite feeling Illya’s body stiffen at their body contact, he doesn’t say a thing. In fact, they don’t say anything else to each other for the rest of the evening.

 

***

As planned, Napoleon manages to acquire the information from their mark the next night, but of course, it had to have an ‘incident’, which in Illya’s immediate report back to Waverly, had entirely been Napoleon’s fault.

“You distorted the truth. How could you barging on me while I was working had been my fault?”

Illya grunts in response, anger still apparent in his eyes. “I don’t consider that working.”

“Oh? What’s it called then?”

Illya bites his lip at the last second before hurtful words could escape his mouth, words that are sure to make the entire matter worse. And he certainly wants to avoid that because he knows their argument could go on all night.

After getting back to their safe house, Napoleon had gone straight to his bedroom, wanting to tend to his injured wrist. While trying to stop Illya’s little scuffle with Yanick, he’d somehow managed to sprain it, and feeling guilty because truthfully he’d been the cause of it, Illya had hovered by the door, eyeing the American until Napoleon couldn’t stand the hurt look Illya’s giving him any longer. And when Illya had offered to help, Napoleon couldn’t refuse his partner.

“You are unbelievable,” he complains, and although annoyed Illya had put the blame on him, he can’t stop the warmth spreading all over his body watching him tend to his sprained wrist, treating it like he had suffered a catastrophic injury. 

“It’s just a sprained wrist. I’m not Gaby,” he blurts all of a sudden. And when he didn’t get the response he had wanted, Napoleon tries again.

“I still say you’d caused all this. Everything was going swimmingly well but you decided to show up, guns blazing. Now we’ll have extra mission reports to write and I’m not going to do it, Peril.”

“It was necessary,” Illya huffs in return. He only looks up at Napoleon for a moment but remains adamant.

“I told you, we could have gotten the information another way,” he continues, insistent. There’s turmoil in his eyes and Napoleon can’t ignore the fact Illya’s protectiveness is doing his head in.

“Look, seduction is a part of my repertoire. It’s what expected of me. Just like cracking a safe or opening locks. It’s part of my job.”

Illya freezes, though his hand still has a firm hold on Napoleon’s arm.

“I do not like it.”

“We’ve all done things we do not like, Peril. It’s unfortunate.”

“I still. Do _not._ Like it.”

The ridiculousness of the situation strikes Napoleon then, that as much as he tells himself he has control over the situation, that Illya’s just being downright stubborn, the truth is he’s floundering. And the argument has to end before Napoleon does something stupid like lean forward and kiss Illya just to make him understand.

But fortunately before he could, Illya’s done with demonstrating his bandaging skills. After cutting the strip of material he’s wrapped carefully around Napoleon’s wrist, he lets go of the American’s arm.

“You can move your fingers comfortably?” he then asks. 

Napoleon wriggles his fingers and nods. “Perfect,” he replies, his answer clipped. In all honesty, despite his angry facade, Napoleon knows how much the Russian worries when it comes to his well being. In fact, he’s afraid that Illya might care a little too much. The night’s earlier events had proven it that much.

“Thanks again,” Napoleon says later when they’ve settled comfortably next to each other on the sofa in the main living room. “I know you’d done it because you care, Peril.” And then Illya’s staring at him, Napoleon’s words triggering a little nerve perhaps, but if Napoleon had chosen not to notice the shift in his demeanour, or truly had not noticed, he doesn’t say anything about it. And he continues to wonder if he’d said the wrong thing when Illya’s frown continues to deepen.

“All right, perhaps I’d gone overboard with Yanick, is that what you want me to say?”

Another prolonged silence until…

“We must speak to Waverly. In future, there must be other ways to get information from our marks.”

Napoleon recalls what had happened; the unfortunate moment of Illya barging in on him and Yanick, and the seemingly compromising situation he’d found them in. But it had all been for the mission, and Illya should have known better than to storm in, even if he’d thought Napoleon had been in danger. It’s true he had voiced his displeasure since the start of the mission but Napoleon had never expected Illya to act the way he had. And he had never expected him to break the man’s arm. _‘He should not have touched you’’_ had been Illya’s exact words, and suddenly, as it rings in his head, the idea of Illya being so protective over him sends a little shiver running down Napoleon’s spine.

“I am sure Waverly understands this.”

Napoleon realises Illya had been talking all the while his mind had wandered. 

“We’re lucky Waverly’s already taking the incident lightly. He could’ve taken us out from future missions on grounds that we’re emotionally compromised when together.”

“Are we?” Illya asks, the question having more meaning than what he’s letting on, and Napoleon only shrugs. He hates it when he’s being cornered and he hates it even more when Illya is obviously not letting the matter rest.

“Just forget about it.”

“No. I will still talk to Waverly tomorrow. Make him understand.”

Wanting to ignore the funny sensations he’s feeling at Illya’s resolute stubbornness, he decides to leave the sofa, but stops short when Illya says, “You cannot see why I’m doing this?”

It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, and Napoleon had never expected that from Illya so now he’s the one that’s caught by surprise. He goes still and sinks back down on the cushions.

“It’s not that. It’s just that you’re always giving me mixed signals,” Napoleon says in the end, tries to be casual, but his mind is certainly racing. 

Illya’s outward expression has not changed, however, but Napoleon knows he’s definitely thinking of something. 

“Illya?” he says a minute later, “If I’ve upset you in any way...”

“Not upset,” Illya replies, clearing his throat. 

Napoleon struggles to keep his composure as Illya continues staring, and he starts to get flustered before his partner’s mouth twist in a half-smile, eyes going soft with some sort of recognition, some kind of understanding that’s finally dawned in his head. And at that look, something akin to nervousness tightens in Napoleon’s chest.

“What is it?” Napoleon asks, anxious. He moves a little, widening the space between them. 

“Do you remember Vienna last month?” Illya asks suddenly. 

Although not seeing the connection, Napoleon nods. 

“Of course. You got yourself in trouble with our mark, but thankfully I was there to save your ass before that mad contessa could get a hold of you. I’d shudder to think what she’d do considering she fancies tall, blonde attractive guys like you for her unsavoury ‘experiments’.”

“You remind me enough of that,” Illya says rolling his eyes at Napoleon’s exaggerated comments. 

“Well, you had brought it up, my friend. What else could I think about other than that?”

Illya hums, sits straighter as he tries to clarify his point. "What I want to say is not what you are thinking, Cowboy.”

“Then what?”

It’s Napoleon’s turn to frown. What else could Illya be talking about? Exasperated that Napoleon can’t figure out what’s on his mind, Illya turns his body so he’s fully facing him, motions for Napoleon to do the same. And then he scoots closer before putting a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. 

“Peril?” Napoleon questions. Illya’s motivation at starting the topic of Vienna still isn’t clear at the moment although alarm bells have started ringing in his head. There’s only one other thing that had happened then that Napoleon could remember. And Illya couldn’t possibly be thinking about...

“After we escaped the contessa, you kissed me.”

Even if Napoleon wants to forget the incident where Illya had gotten himself kidnapped and the sheer panic Napoleon had felt when he realised he might not be able to save the bull-headed Russian, the events that had happened after his rescue, is something he can’t easily erase from his mind. In fact, it is the best memory he's got stored in the recesses of his head when it comes to Illya.

That night, when he had kissed Illya and pressed his shaking hands to his bare, bruised skin, Napoleon had closed his eyes and told himself that they both had needed it. There had never been anything between Illya and him, and that was the way things should always be. That kiss had been a one off, with no strings attached, but it’s a constant in his head whenever he needs it. How could he forget the one time he’d seen Illya’s eyes turn to liquid for him, the way Illya had chased his lips when they parted, how he had touched Napoleon so carefully, as though he was the one that had been hurt, as though he’s a treasure that needs to be protected at all cost?

And the way Illya had melted under his touch had made Napoleon’s breath catch, and he had scrambled to hide his feelings ever since. 

Just as he’s about to come to terms that Illya has actually brought up a topic he desperately hopes they never get to talk about again, he’s pulled quickly out of his thoughts at the feeling of Illya leaning against him, his breath hot on his neck and a whisper in his ear. 

“I believe you remember this.”

Napoleon gulps.

Illya is being too bold and Napoleon concludes he’s doing it just to prove something to Napoleon. Not wanting Illya to regret this later, Napoleon tries to prevent him from coming any closer but their closeness is wreaking havoc in his brain, he’s unable to think straight.

“We’d promised never to talk about it.”

The rumbled sound Illya makes portrays the conflicting feeling he’s fighting.

“Solo…”

“Illya, you don’t have to do this. You don’t really want to do this,” Napoleon tells him, although when Illya leans down, his mouth almost on his ear has Napoleon gasping out softly, part in surprise, part in want. And when he looks at Illya, his eyes are soft on him. 

“I know I am not one of your marks, Solo. I have seen you in action. I see what you can do.” 

Napoleon shakes his head vehemently. “I’ve never treated you like one. If you think Vienna was just an act.”

“I know it wasn’t. Not what I’m trying to say,” Illya quickly cuts himoff, his grip tightening on Napoleon’s shoulder. “Today, when I saw Yannick kissing you, I lost it, Cowboy. Because no one else should touch you like that but me.”

“But I thought you…”

“You thought wrong.”

The atmosphere changes instantly and Napoleon swears upon hearing Illya’s admission. Because he himself has not forgotten Vienna and the consequences of his action that day had confused him immensely. He thought he had himself figured out before that kiss. It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing after all, because he’d been so glad to have Illya back, unscathed, but those moments have a knack of making one start thinking all of a sudden, putting one’s whole existence in question.

And he had, questioned himself, that is, what those thoughts he had of Illya were all about. And when he thought he had figured it out, he understood that he could not act on them. Not then. _Not ever_.

Apparently Illya had not thought of it the same way as he had.

His train of thoughts are cut off by the feeling of soft lips on his neck, slowly kissing their way along his jaw line, up and down his neck, everywhere they can reach and finally, they stop at the corner of his mouth, the hot breath driving him insane.

“You know what you want, Cowboy. Take it.” 

Napoleon’s heart almost stops and then he’s staring at Illya’s mouth. 

“Are you sure about this?” Napoleon asks, breathless, and Illya nods. The table has definitely turned. Now Illya is acting like he’s the seducer.

“I’m tired of denying what I want.”

Napoleon swallows, tries to hold onto his final restraints because this is not smart. 

Not at all. 

But _God_ , it feels good.

A hand is in his hair, moving down slightly, circling, comforting, pulling him closer. A kiss on his neck, lingering, a sharp breath escaping him as teeth scrape lightly across his skin. A hand circling his waist. Russian words flowing ever so lightly. Not that they make much sense to him at the moment. But they efficiently break down his self-control like hot water on ice. Not that he cares anymore.

"You are not going to regret this, are you?” he asks in a strained whisper, trying hard not to get distracted by the hand tracing the waistline of his pants.

Illya merely smiles, a longing flash in his eyes.

“I won’t,” he whispers and the next thing Napoleon knows, lips are upon his, stealing his breath with their intensity. He can do nothing else than receive what he is being given, slowly backed up against the back of the sofa. At the first given opportunity, however, he pulls away slightly. He’s about to talk, but Illya places a finger on his lips, silencing him.

“Do what _you_ want for once.”

“You’re the one to talk,” Napoleon argues like a child, pouting, and then, “what had changed?”

“Like I said, what I saw today made me angry. You and that man.”

“It was just a mission, only for the mission,” Napoleon argues, cutting him off. “You do know this.”

“I am not sorry for what I’d done. He deserved it.”

Not being able to argue any longer, Napoleon moves one hand up, the one that’s injured, around Illya’s neck and looks at him for a moment before throwing caution to the wind and brushes his lips tentatively across Illya’s. The reaction from the Russian is instant as he relaxes into Napoleon’s embrace, exhaling slowly. The scent of something that is just so Napoleon is making him lightheaded and out of breath. 

“What is it about you, Cowboy?”

The heavy breaths on Napoleon’s face are making his thoughts collide. Making it impossible to form coherent sentences. Lips close to his ear again, Illya’s whispered words is sending shivers of pleasure down his spine.

“How is it that only you can make me lose my mind like this? Make me lose control.”

Those words spark a fire in Napoleon. A fire that’s been looming beneath the surface for the past days, weeks, months. Illya kisses the soft spot beneath his ear. At his sharp intake of breath, Illya sucks gently, burying a hand in his hair, holding him in place. And then two strong hands press against his chest, makes him shudder, but Illya merely chuckles softly as he pushes him down on the sofa. The feeling of Illya’s body fitting so perfectly against his is driving Napoleon absolutely crazy with suppressed want as he runs his hands up under Illya’s black shirt, feeling rather than hearing the muffled sigh he gets in response.

And at that point, Napoleon surrenders, knowing Illya is right. It is best to just go with it.

With what they really want.


End file.
